When you painted me eggs
for breakfast,
the little cute ones – smiley faces, mustached,
some crowned
some done up on little crucifixes
made of bone, sinew, spit and tears,
my first reaction was one
of hollow, righteous indignation,
rage.

I wanted to hurl them at the sky,
smash passing birds,
distract airplanes and bring them to earth,
make all things new and clean again.

But, then, Cromwell was bellowing,
(again, all that shouting)
high up on his horse,
braced on a bed of Irish skulls and broken shells,
death after death,
head brushing the canopy.

Round and round and round again,
he’d fix everything.
He’s show the Dutch what’s-what.
How to do it right.
Set God above men, and
himself above all.

He’s smashing the eggs
you’d so lovingly decorated,
with chant and incense,
sleight and bow.

And me, mad-eyed, spatula in hand,
wrapped up in my “Disambiguate the Cook” apron,
stirring yolks, whites, butter…
making omelets from the guts of small gods.

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